


A Carnival Mirror

by secretsalex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Belly Kink, Chubby Albus, Draco is 42 and Albus is not quite 17, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 20:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13015572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsalex/pseuds/secretsalex
Summary: Albus Severus is nothing like his father. It’s all those differences that Draco can’t stop thinking about.





	A Carnival Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for [HP Nextgen Fest 2011](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/81386.html). 
> 
> Fair warning: Albus is young and clearly inexperienced in this fic, and Draco capitalizes on it to get what he wants. Proceed with caution, if that scenario might be triggering for you.

The first time Draco saw Albus, he didn't realise he was Potter's son. 

For one thing, the boy was working in a potions shop, and that would have spelled disaster for Potter the Elder. 

When he saw him that first time, the boy was shelving potion vials, seated on the floor at the back of the store, robe discarded in deference to the summer heat, moving the tiny glass bottles methodically from a crate to the bottom shelf. Draco watched as the boy lined each vial up with care, making certain that every label faced forward. 

His father would never have done that. 

Draco stepped toward him, and as soon as the boy heard him, he pushed himself to his feet. 

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy." His voice was low, lower than Draco had expected to come from such a boy. He looked young, like such a child still, all chubby cheeks and rounded belly. 

Draco raised his eyebrows. He didn't know the boy, but apparently the boy knew him. It was not uncommon. Whether famous or infamous, Malfoy was something of a household name, and Draco looked every inch the Malfoy that he was. 

Albus spoke again. "I'm Albus Severus Potter, Sir. I'm in your son's year. Can I help you?"

 _Potter's son_. Draco looked at him again, and this time he saw the green eyes, saw the bird's nest of black hair, saw his father written across his features. It was like looking at Harry in a carnival mirror; where Harry was lean and sharp, Albus was curved and soft. When Harry had been this boy's age, he'd been thin to a fault. Nothing about Albus was thin. 

It was fascinating.

Draco didn't need assistance. He was there for nothing but run of the mill ingredients: bat wings, Kneazle gut, assorted dry goods. Nothing pre-brewed, nothing exotic. 

"I'm looking for Thestral blood." He was surprised to find himself lying.

Albus perked up. "We actually just got some in the other day. We have some from an Irish herd—good stock, very nice. But the new supply is from Aunt Luna—Luna Lovegood, I mean." He blushed then, and this boy couldn't possibly be Scorpius' age, couldn't have anything to do at all with rebellious, haughty Scorpius who thought he owned the world and everything in it. 

"She cares for the herd at Hogwarts now," Albus finished. "She just brought this shipment in last week."

He did not need Thestral blood, not from Ireland or Hogwarts or the bloody moon. He nodded anyway. "Tell me, Albus Severus Potter, which would you recommend?"

"Oh, I—well." Albus looked surprised to have been asked his opinion, and he shifted his feet, tugged on the hem of his t-shirt where it clung just slightly to that curve of flesh that spoke of a mother’s indulgent hand in the kitchen, a taste for Honeydukes chocolates and warm butterbeers. Draco stared. "The Irish supply is very good, of course—but I would buy the Hogwarts strain. Luna takes excellent care of her herd." 

"Ah. Indeed," Draco said, deliberately vague. He had no faith whatsoever in Luna Lovegood's ability to do anything sufficiently, let alone with excellence. "Yes, then—I'll take it. On your recommendation, of course."

Albus blushed again, his plump cheeks stained with identical red bursts of hectic colour that made the few freckles across the bridge of his nose stand out. Draco forced himself to look away, wishing with a sudden fervor that he carried a cane or a pipe or _something_ to fiddle with in moments like these. 

There was something about Albus Severus Potter that was far more appealing than it should be. 

~*~

Draco came back to Madame Lychin's Potions Emporium often after that. For more Thestral blood. For rare flowering vines imported from India. For vials and beakers and little brown-paper packages, all full of ingredients he didn't really need. 

Albus was always working, always carefully shelving ingredients or taking inventory. And once, to Draco's endless fascination, he'd been teetering on the edge of a ladder to dust items on the top of a little-perused shelf, leaning forward precariously so that his t-shirt had pulled up, revealing a few inches of soft white flesh. 

He got better at talking with Draco, less likely to scuff his feet like a child and more likely to smile, to make conversation—to, in general, act his age enough to appease some of Draco's guilt about his growing desires.

His inexplicable, downright disturbing desires.

~*~

It was the cheapest ploy in the book, the way Draco finally got Albus Potter alone. So cheap, in fact, that Draco couldn’t own up to what he was doing, even to himself. 

He didn’t let himself think of Albus, not as he quietly made certain that Astoria would be in France, and that Scorpius would be away at Durmstrang’s Quidditch camp. 

He didn’t let himself think of Albus when he woke up that morning, didn’t think of him while he showered, dressed, pulled his tie into a careful Windsor knot, or donned his dove grey robes that he knew made his eyes look like liquid, like mercury. 

He didn’t let himself think of Albus even as he put quill to parchment, writing out a quick missive in his elegantly careless scrawl. 

And he certainly didn’t think of Albus after he’d sent Persephone off with the parchment and sat awaiting a reply. 

Waiting to see if Madame Lychin would deign to send her young assistant off on an errand that could really have been handled by owl. 

~*~

Draco didn’t have to wait long. Persephone traveled quickly, and Madame Lychin was efficient as ever. Draco had barely had time to open the Floo when Potter’s son was stepping through it, stumbling on the smooth marble floor, nearly dropping the package of delicate crushed pixie wings in his hands. 

“Good afternoon, Albus,” Draco said, rising from his spot on the chaise and stepping toward the fireplace. 

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy.” Albus tried to brush errant soot from his robes, managing to miss the ashy line on his left shoulder, the smudge on his soft, undefined jawline. “Madame Lychin said you needed the pixie wings as soon as possible.”

“Yes, thank you. You may set them there,” Draco said, pointing toward a sideboard. 

Albus did as he was told, his eyes darting around the enormous drawing room as he did so. Draco imagined that Albus had never seen a home like Malfoy Manor before. God knew Potter wasn’t raising his brood in the lap of luxury. Godric’s Hollow was so relentlessly quaint it practically had a thatched roof. 

Draco pitched his voice low, authoritative but calm, when he spoke again. “Join me, Albus.” He gestured behind him, across the room to where a small table near the garden window had been set for tea. 

He wasn’t surprised when Albus twitched, giving him a wide-eyed gaze. “Oh, Sir—I don’t want to keep you—“

“If you were inconveniencing me, I wouldn’t have asked.” It was the absolute truth. It had been a long time ago that Draco had been forced to shuffle forward on his knees to the Dark Lord, but he still remembered with burning anger and shame how terrible it had been to do something against his will. He made it a habit never to do it now—no matter how small or seemingly inconsequent. 

Draco turned and moved to the table, his back to Albus, confident that the boy was young enough, obedient enough, to follow.

He was.

~*~

Draco eyed Harry Potter’s son over the rim of his teacup. He’d told the boy to eat, had had his house elves load the table with pastries, sandwiches, biscuits, tarts. It was an inexplicable desire, to feed Albus, and Draco didn’t let himself dwell on it. He wasn’t even admitting to himself his ploy to get the boy through the Floo, let alone that his desire for Albus Potter might be driven by something specific, something…strange.

God, how he wanted to see Albus relax, eat his food, drink his tea. 

Albus was neither relaxed nor eating. Currently, the boy was seated across from him stirring a second cup of mostly milk and sugar. He’d turned down all the food except one biscuit, which he was breaking into pieces and shoving around his plate. “I’m not—I’m not hungry, but thank you,” he’d said when Draco offered him more, but Draco had seen the way Albus’ hand landed on the curve of his belly and tugged unconsciously at his robes. 

Draco took a sandwich himself, fiddled with it and took a few bites for Albus’ sake. “I’ve never seen a teenage boy who wasn’t hungry,” he finally said. “Scorpius would never turn down food, I’m sure.”

Albus looked up, blinked, then looked away, a flush stealing across his cheeks. “Well”—Albus’ hand fell to his midsection again—“it’s just—I probably shouldn’t stay that long, anyway.”

Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and cast a _Tempus_ between them. “After four. Does Madame Lychin really expect you back today?”

Albus shrugged. “Actually, she said this was the last thing I had to do.”

“Well, then—stay. Eat. Is my company so abhorrent?”

Albus blushed again, his slightly crooked front teeth flashing between plump adolescent lips. They were endearing, the crooked teeth, although only a Potter wouldn’t bother to learn simple cosmetic charms. Somehow that fact made it all the more appealing. “Okay, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco smiled in return, leaning back in his chair as his guest finally filled his plate. “Good, Albus. Good.”

~*~

Draco hung back, watching as Albus peered around the lab, looking into various cauldrons, each bubbling with potions at different stages of brewing. 

“Gods, this is great, really.” Albus looked over his shoulder at Draco. “This is _Doloro Rememdium_ , right? The reviews from mind healers who’ve used it have been glowing. I’ve never seen it before, but I’ve read about it, I think I recognise the texture and the smell, like cotton and chocolate.” 

Draco smiled, part fatherly fondness, part…something else. Albus was correct—he was brewing Doloro Rememdium, known more commonly as Grief Relief. It was relatively new and certainly not part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and Draco was impressed with his knowledge. Here in the lab, Albus appeared at ease for the first time since he’d arrived at the Manor. 

“You’re right. Very good,” Draco murmured, taking a few quiet steps in Albus’ direction, coming up behind the boy as he peered once more into the cauldron, his back to Draco. “You’re knowledgeable. Do you have a lab at home?”

“Oh, no—are you kidding? My dad hates potions. We don’t brew so much as a hangover cure at our house. Dad blows stuff up.” 

Draco smiled, took a few more steps until he was directly behind Albus. He reached out carefully, so carefully, until one hand rested on Albus’ shoulder. 

“Ah. Scorpius also ‘blows stuff up,’ as you say.” They were curiously alike, he and Albus—both sharing homes and lives with men who were nothing like them. He thought of brave, brash Harry Potter, father to this soft, sweet, child; and Scorpius Malfoy, confident happy son of such a neurotic man as himself. He cleared his throat. “I had to ban him from my lab years ago. You’re welcome to come by anytime you like—I’d be happy to let you use a cauldron or two.” 

If Albus was bothered by the hand on his shoulder, he didn’t let it show. Draco suspected it was because Albus was used to gentle, almost careless affection from adults. Merlin knew the times he’d seen the Potters and Weasleys out with their respective broods it had looked more like a litter of crups than a family, adults and children alike gamboling all over one another. Nothing like his own childhood. And not much like Scorpius’, either. Draco tried, always tried, to be at ease with his son, to show affection, but it was hard—like it was a skill Lucius and Narcissa deprived him of until it was too late, until the ability was permanently stunted. 

Albus nodded, started to respond, but Draco brought up his left hand, the hand not already touching Albus, and slid it gently around the boy’s waist. 

When Albus didn’t move, he dropped the right down, as well, until his arms were circling Albus’ waist, light as rice paper, his big hands resting on the curve of Albus’ rounded belly. 

“Er.” Albus coughed, and Draco felt a shiver run through him as Albus’ tummy contracted, rippled with the movement. 

“What potions are you interested in brewing?” Draco forced his voice to be steady, nonchalant. “I’m getting ready to work on several new ones, if you’re interested. There’s a new study out of Germany about the use of bezoars in potions combating insomnia and I’d like to run some experiments.” 

“Oh—um.” Albus was tense, every muscle in his chubby body strung tight, ready to flee. 

”I could use your help,” Draco added carelessly. “One or two evenings after you work at Madame Lychin’s.” 

Somehow, this had the intended effect, and Albus relaxed, just slightly, under Draco’s touch. “I would like that, Sir.” His voice was wobbly, but it was clear. 

Draco laid his palms flat against Albus’ midsection, let two fingers of each hand brush gently against the undercurve of Albus’ belly, where his little potbelly pooched over the waistband of his trousers. God, just imagining the way that skin right there would feel if it weren’t covered by two layers of clothing, that soft, vulnerable spot that Draco had seen the day Albus was leaning off the ladder in Madame Lychin’s, was enough to make Draco crazy. He had to restrain himself from pressing his erection against Albus’ arse. 

“Good.” Draco’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

~*~

Albus had been coming over to work in Draco’s lab for weeks before it happened, before Draco couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Do you want a drink before you go?” He asked the question easily and tried not to put any unnecessary emphasis on it. Before Albus could answer, Draco pulled a bottle of Ogden’s from his desk, wanting to make sure Albus realised he was offering liquor, not pumpkin juice. 

Albus swallowed, looking back and forth from Draco’s face to the bottle. “You don’t mind?”

“A glass won’t kill you, will it?” Draco produced two squat crystal-cut tumblers from the same drawer that housed the whiskey and poured a few fingers in each glass. It was enough that Albus would be tipsy from it. 

Albus smiled at him, the shy, sweet smile that made the dimples in his chubby cheeks show. “No, it won’t kill me.” 

Draco picked up both glasses, came around the desk and handed one to Albus. “Sit,” he offered, gesturing to the pair of empty chairs in front of his desk. 

Albus sat, managing not to grimace when he took a sip of Ogden’s. 

Draco moved until he was in front of Albus, then leaned back against his desk and took a long swallow. God, Albus looked beautiful. His Muggle jeans were frayed at the knees, worn and battered, and just a little too tight, judging from the way Albus’ soft midsection protruded over the waistband. His plain white t-shirt, also Muggle, also soft and worn, fit him closely, not too tight, really, but not loose enough to disguise his belly, either. He looked soft and delicate, porcelain skin and big green eyes, chubby and gently rounded all over. 

Draco was torn between the desire to pin him down and fuck the shit out of him and curl up with his head in the boy’s lap, letting that soft tummy serve as his pillow. He wanted to be rough, to possess him in every possible way; and yet in nearly equal measure he wanted to pull him close and breathe him in.

It was completely overwhelming. 

“Do you have a girlfriend, Albus?” Draco was nearly certain he knew the answer. Albus wasn’t any straighter than Draco, of that he was quite sure. But, of course, at not-quite-seventeen Albus might not be aware of that yet. 

Albus blinked up at him, took another drink of firewhiskey and allowed himself a grimace this time. “Uh—no, no Sir.” He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that had Draco nearly undone. “I don’t.”

“Ah. A boyfriend, then?” 

Albus jerked, and a splash of Ogden’s escaped the rim of his glass. “Oh, shit.”

Before he’d even made the decision consciously, Draco set his glass down and pulled the linen handkerchief from his pocket. When he blotted at the spilled whiskey soaking through Albus’ t-shirt, when he felt the soft flesh beneath the whiskey-soaked cotton jiggle under his touch, Draco inhaled softly. 

“Boyfriend, then?” he asked quietly.

Albus blushed. “No, Sir. Not—never. But—you know, I would rather that. Than a girlfriend. You know.”

Draco nodded, thinking in a vague way that Albus’ father used to stammer like that as a teenager. “I do know.”

Albus looked up, and Draco caught his gaze. He nodded again. “I know very well.” It broke Draco’s heart a bit when Albus’ face sagged with relief. 

“You’ve never been with a boy, Albus?”

Albus shook his head, looking defeated. “No, Sir.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “I assure you, you aren’t the only queer boy at Hogwarts.”

Albus closed his eyes. “I know. But I’m”—he waved a hand vaguely at his whiskey-damp belly. “Boys don’t want me. I’m not—you know. No offence, Sir, but Scorpius would make a much better gay boy than me. Not that he is, of course, it’s just…you know.”

Draco snorted. Albus was right—his son was as delicate and pale as Draco himself had been as a teenager. Scorpius, however, was straight as a broomstick and drowning in pussy, had been since his third year, Draco knew. He lectured Scorpius on contraception charms every time the boy came home. 

“You think that gay boys should look like Scorpius, then? You think that’s what men want?”

“Yes—you know it’s true.”

“Not for everyone,” Draco said, letting his voice drift down an octave. “Some men would be bored with that. Some men might want a soft boy—sweet, gentle.” Albus was staring at him with huge green eyes, rapt at his words. Draco sat down in the vacant chair next to him, reclining slightly. “Maybe a boy like you.”

Albus just stared, and Draco leaned forward, tugged Albus into his lap, and _Christ_ , he was in his arms, soft and safe, gentle and curved and _soft_ everywhere. Draco shuddered. “You’re beautiful, Albus.”

Albus shook his head. “I’m fat.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Albus and let his hands rest once again on the curve of his belly. “You’re lovely. Absolutely lovely.” He shifted, let his prick rub against Albus’ arse, let Albus feel that he meant every word.

“You think so?” Albus’ voice was a whisper. 

“Let me show you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Draco knew what he was going to do—knew that he had crossed a line, gone to a point from which he could not return. And Merlin help him, he didn’t care.

Albus nodded and leaned back until he was resting against Draco’s shoulder. “Yeah. Show me.”

Draco let his hands travel over Albus’ stomach, come to the button and zip of his Muggle jeans. He twitched, and Draco could sense the boy’s near-panic. “Shh. You’re okay.” He kept talking, soothing little nonsensical words of comfort as he lowered the zip over Albus’ erection, knowing instinctively that he needed to hear his voice.

When he slipped his hand through the fly of Albus’ pants, Albus gasped. “Shh, shh,” Draco repeated, rocking Albus in his lap like a lover, like a child. “It’s okay.”

Albus’ prick in his hand was heavy, bigger than he’d expected—the boy certainly didn’t exude the kind of confidence that might have accompanied such a cock. 

“Beautiful,” Draco said, his voice like breath against Albus’ ear. “Beautiful.” 

Draco’s hand moved in slow drags, dry, only Albus’ precome for lube. It would be just this side of painful—the kind of desperate, torturous orgasm Draco always associated with teenage sex. 

Albus’ breathing was harsh, little short pants that were so fucking desperate Draco couldn’t breathe himself. 

“I’m—I’m going to—“

“Come.”

The spill of warmth over Draco’s hand was exquisite, somehow delicate. 

“Oh.” Albus’ throat clicked as he swallowed and tried to catch his breath. “Oh.” 

Draco sighed and pulled the boy tighter against him, relishing the softness of him in his lap, this boy who was his son’s age, this boy whose father had once been the subject of Draco’s unmitigated hatred, this boy whose whole family was the antithesis of everything the Malfoys stood for. 

Albus shifted, and Draco cleared his throat. “The next time you come over I’ll show you how to brew the _Doloro Rememdium_. We should have time for several batches before September.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments will, of course, be greatly appreciated, and I'm on tumblr at [secretsalex](http://secretsalex.tumblr.com).


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